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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24327241">to catch a prize</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza'>AnnaofAza</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>with this ring (debt be paid) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Dark Shiro (Voltron), Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Marriage, M/M, Morning After, Outdoor Sex, POV Shiro (Voltron), Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Past Shiro/Others, Possessive Shiro (Voltron), Rape/Non-con Elements</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:42:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,216</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24327241</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They're now wedded and bedded, and Shiro considers his next steps.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keith/Shiro (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>with this ring (debt be paid) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752307</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>191</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>to catch a prize</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shiro sees him when he enters the room—who wouldn’t, with those clothes: workman’s boots, scuffed knees of his trousers, uncombed hair.</p><p>Yet he’s already captivated by those eyes: dark purplish-blue, like irises. Set against skin pale as death—did they not let him outside?—and hair as black as graphite, they’re more than striking—beautiful, even.</p><p>He takes a hand without really seeing it: ungloved, with callouses like sandpaper. The man is speaking; Shiro’s sure he replies back, with an equal nicety, drilled into him by endless teas and parlors and galas. The boy barely reaches up to his chest; there seems to be very little familial resemblance. An orphan? A mere coincidence of resembling his mother's side of the family? Whatever it is, Shiro bends every so slightly over the knuckles—square and small like baby teeth—and presses his mouth against bare flesh. </p><p>“...Keith,” Kolivan is saying. No mention of a familial relationship. A valet? But if they’re chest-high in debt, why keep one? For pride? For inheritance's sake? For denial?</p><p>“Keith,” he repeats, name sweet on his tongue, then adds, “Kolivan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”</p><p>This meeting is a place where Shiro likes to hold court, with tall glass windows and potted and vined greenery, making the area seem like they’re in an eternal sunny afternoon beer garden. There are oil paintings that he can stare at in the corner of his eye if his client is boring him, and the tea and refreshments at least don’t leave him hungry by the end, no matter how long these meetings drag on.  </p><p>But now, he finds something new to look at. His mind’s steady enough to talk business, as Kolivan lays out his proposal—plea, really. The boy—Keith—stares back, but he’s used to that, even with his customized gloves and hat to hide the shock of white hair. </p><p>It’s clear Keith knows nothing of him or of their talk, and it’s a relief. There’s no coy mutterings or secretive code words or outright questions—particularly about the war; everyone's starved for a thrilling tale these days. And to interact without whispers—<em>he's leaned in, he’s chatting awfully much, is there a match in future?</em>—well. He’d sooner let his family empire with all their antiques and silver spoons go to ashes, but he’s a good son, devoted and the last.  </p><p>Keith eats little—with utensils, at least—but Shiro drinks him in. He thinks about flesh, how he hasn’t seen it since the war, and longer in the way he liked. Adam was dust—his sharp chin and steady hands and mop of hair—and there had been little else after. He was no innocent; he held out for grief and surrendered for loneliness, lust, what was the difference? </p><p>Kolivan talks little, something Shiro can at least respect. He has no patience for prattling, and like himself, Kolivan carries the burden of survival. He’d read his file over a glass of wine: a comrade, a codebreaker, a commander, which ended—dignified, at least—with a respectable injury. Honorably discharged. Few were so lucky. </p><p>Anyhow, Kolivan seems to approve of him, gratefully shaking his hand, though he doesn’t seem to sense that Shiro’s far from interested in Marmora Industries by the end of the night.</p><hr/><p>Shiro had worried that waking up, he'd find it all burst like a soap bubble, that he'd find Keith dull and unappealing in the early light. </p><p>But he's pleased to find his gamble had paid off just fine: Keith’s face is flushed pink, his dark hair mussed, his lips kiss-bitten. Part of the blanket’s shifted so it’s draped across his hip, pale and still messy from last night. The curtains are drawn—he doesn’t remember that—but a peek of sunlight makes his eyes luminous.</p><p>He looks marvelous. </p><p>Shiro reaches out, tucks a stray strand behind Keith’s ear. "Get dressed and we'll have breakfast, then tour the house." </p><p>Keith blinks at him. He's spoken very little, Shiro thinks, which is better than gabbling in his ear, but hopes he'll find something to say; Shiro wanted many things, but a silent companion is not one of them. </p><p>He slips out of bed, finding it endearing when Keith's gaze drops to the floor, and heads towards the washroom, shutting the door quietly behind him.</p><p>It takes him a little longer to become Takashi Shirogane, dabbing at his face and scraping the night's shadow off, then combing his hair to a respectable part. His right arm works as seamlessly as his left, but can be too strong if left unnoticed; he'd learned that the hard way when he'd drifted off while shaving. Clothes cover the marks of war well enough; at least Keith hadn't been so thoughtless to comment, especially last night. He loathes gawkers. </p><p>When he returns, Keith is still in bed, though sitting on the edge of it, blanket over his lap, hanging loosely around his ankles.</p><p>He looks lost; Shiro’s heart goes out to him. It <em> is </em>frightening, or at least startling, to wake up in a new place. It had been like that in his army days, waking up to the dirty gray canvas of a tent across the ocean, sometimes with a familiar face, sometimes not. </p><p>“You’re not dressed,” he says. </p><p>Keith doesn’t meet his eyes. “I...the clothes I saw were your size.”</p><p>He takes a minute to imagine Keith in his clothes, swallowing him and his lithe frame, swathes of fabric spilling onto the floor—perhaps one of his dressing gowns, and nothing but that. Bare feet, too, the sash trailing, easily tugged away—he files that idea away for later. </p><p>Instead, Shiro opens the wardrobe further, revealing another compartment, full of bright colors that will highlight Keith's beauty. "Choose what you like,” he says. </p><p>Keith looks at it, eyes wide—it’s a surprise, something Shiro thought of while measuring him for his wedding suit, because he couldn’t possibly keep wearing what he was...used to wearing—then at the washroom door. “I’d like to…” </p><p>“Of course,” Shiro says, stepping aside, and Keith gets up, blanket still clutched around him, dragging on the carpet as he makes his way past. </p><p>When the door shuts behind him, Shiro swears he hears a small sigh.</p><hr/><p>Keith eats very little. </p><p>He does, though, seem to perk up once he's outdoors; Shiro makes a mental note to get more hats, or arrange some activities. They could go walking, or Keith could practice shooting or hunt or garden or whatever he liked on the grounds. The slight breeze and sunshine bring a flush to his cheeks; it makes Shiro wonder what he's like in sea air, where he has a property on the beach. He has a boat, too; Keith could recline on the cushions with a drink, while Shiro steered, wind ruffling both their hair. </p><p>For now, he watches Keith, wandering as if in a daze, stepping lightly on the path. Shiro knows the grounds are well-kept, with neatly-trimmed hedges and flowers bright and cheerful, a tree or two, with leaves streaming down like a canopy. There are stone benches, too, and somewhere away from prying eyes, a tomb of sorts, engraved for his brothers. It’s white marble, and the ground’s swept at least once a week; he’d buried the ashes himself, still nestled in their wooden boxes. His parents do not rest here, but in a graveyard designated for those with legacies and money—and Shiro does not care that he’s uprooted a tradition; his brothers came home in the end, and that’s what matters. </p><p>He’ll likely be buried here, and Keith, too, and Shiro shakes his head at his dismal thoughts; they have no place here, especially today. In a few steps, he crosses to where Keith’s standing, arms wrapped across his chest, and hungrily kisses him, Keith stilling underneath. </p><p>"Wait," Keith gasps. "We're outside." </p><p>Shiro shrugs. The servants know better than to disturb him and no one is around for miles. He tells Keith that, but he only shakes his head again—most likely, he’s still shy, regardless of last night. </p><p>That’s all right; it’ll wear off. Shiro grazes his fingertips across Keith’s cheekbones, cupping his face before drawing him into another kiss. Keith’s unresponsive, but his body shivers, just once, as Shiro coaxes his mouth open, soft and warm and sweet. He’s not like the other men, stubble scratching uncomfortably and often making a telling mark, with knobby hands with too quick and too greedy groping, tongue clumsily and too jabbing. He opens to Shiro, pliable and new, and he remembers the sounds he’d elicited from Keith’s mouth, startled and breathy; it was clear he’d never been with a man—or anyone—until that moment. </p><p>And no one else will have him. Shiro slides a hand into his hair, drags his mouth over Keith’s neck, his fingers already rucking up the hem of his shirt, untucking it from his pants, sliding up to touch bare skin. Keith cries out underneath him, grips his shoulders, and Shiro soon pulls them down, shucking off his jacket and tossing it carelessly onto the grass, before lowering Keith onto the fabric, spread out like a picnic blanket. </p><p>He presses Keith into the ground, swallowing another gasp, fingers fumbling at buttons, trying not to allow them to disappear into the grass in his haste. Shiro begins to slowly roll his hips, continuing the motion as Keith’s fingernails further dig through his shirt, almost painfully, so much that he pries the hands off and intertwines them with his, lowering them so Keith’s knuckles are pinned onto the grass. Keith squirms, but doesn’t fight, and Shiro’s able to cover the expanse of his body. Unlike his, it’s unravaged by war, smooth and pale, a tablet to write on. </p><p>He pops the button of his trousers, shoves them down his hips, and opens Keith’s, in turn. Keith’s looking away, closing his eyes, chest rising up and down rapidly, cheeks darkening from pink to red, as fabric tugs over his thighs, the crook of his knees, onto the grass. He slips a finger into Keith, then another, stretching him wide, pressing as deep as he can. It had taken practice to skillfully use his left hand, but it's worth it; he wants to be gentle, this time.  </p><p>It’s not long before Keith’s trembling, hissing air out of his teeth; Shiro has no intentions, this time, of playing him too long, winding him up as tight as a bowstring, though there are plans for that, later. He admits he’s too impatient for his own good, that he’s overcome, that he’s besotted—whatever the word, he wants Keith, and he has him. Shiro’s murmuring what’s likely nonsense into the tender flesh of Keith’s neck, pulse point rapidly thudding underneath his lips—love talk, Adam used to call, with a teasing quirk to his lips, and he fights to keep that voice buried, where it belongs. </p><p>Keith’s still loose but not as much as he would like, but is pleasant all the same, tight and warm, legs akimbo, and it’s easy to come undone, biting hard into Keith’s shoulder, teeth against bone, leaving a sure mark, a mark that will linger underneath his clothing but show that he belongs to Shiro all the same.</p><hr/><p>Afterwards, Shiro wraps Keith in his jacket and carries him into the house, making a mental note to either pick up the rest himself or simply ask a servant—that might be easier, and the clothes could be saved from grass stains if they’re washed and pressed in time. If they can't be—well. There's always more to come. </p><p>He orders someone to draw a bath, and in the meantime, sits himself down on the cool tile, scooping Keith onto his lap, and feeds him an orange from the basket on the table, peeling each section apart and slipping it between his lips. Keith chews and swallows obediently, eyes dazed and hair tangled—some strands of grass had gotten into it. A different sort of mess is leaking onto his own pants, but no matter—it’s happened before and can be resolved. </p><p>“How are you?” he asks, sliding his fingers from Keith’s mouth, slick and shiny. </p><p>Keith makes a soft noise, and Shiro nuzzles into his neck, inhaling his scent. He can’t wait to clean Keith up, with a soft wash rag and expensive soap, steam rising from the tub and filling the room in a soporific haze. Perhaps they’ll lie down, after, naked and patted dry on the bed; it’s still early, but there’s no work to be done today—he’s supposed to be on his honeymoon, after all. </p><p>Eventually, his duties will begin again; he’s still not sure whether to take Keith along with him. He needs lessons, schooling on not only basic skills but etiquette, the same ones he’s learned—though perhaps not too soon. He’d like to come home to someone without polish or varnish, someone fresh and innocent. He wonders if he can keep Keith like his, hidden away and untouched, and for how long? It’s no secret that he’s married—perhaps a proper introduction is needed, a debut of sorts. But he doesn’t want a fuss. </p><p>For now, he’ll keep Keith to himself. </p>
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